The Last Victim
by Becky99
Summary: An additional ending to the season three episode: THE KNIFE. Awaiting Roxton's return to good health, he and Marguerite see visions in their sleep involving Mary Kelly - and Jack the Ripper!
1. Chapter 1

**THE LOST WORLD**

_**The Last Victim**_

[]

_The bittersweet tears shed over graves _

_Are for words left unsaid and deeds _

_Left undone._

Harriet Beecher Stowe

[]

Marguerite tried to stay awake as she held his usually energetic but now lax and sleeping body against her own. "Head above water." she whispered, kissing him yet again on his damp forehead. Distracted, she brushed away a few straying dark hairs and silently vowed to not leave him again.

Inspector Anderson had deceived her, actually both of them, but Roxton knew something was not right from the very first moment they saw the man. She should have had more faith in his intuition but Marguerite was so sure Roxton's attitude was an over-reaction. _Jealousy_, she thought, was clouding the hunter's usually clear thoughts.

Marguerite was no fool. She knew what she meant to John and did not purposely go about making him green-eyed but these days it wasn't that difficult a feat to accomplish. It seemed any time a man outside the treehouse had the nerve to speak with her, Roxton got surly.

First, there was that well-built warrior in the Zanga village who, after a successful hunting trip, presented Marguerite with a wild pheasant. He had been like a young, love struck school-boy, giving a gift to the girl of his dreams. Marguerite couldn t help but feel flattered. Roxton, on the other hand, was not at all amused. Then later, just two weeks ago, Trico - an elderly Nambu merchant - took a piece of Marguerite's worthless costume jewelry and gave the treehouse inhabitants enough salt to last six months. Trico was known far and wide as a tough sell but Marguerite was easily able to negotiate a beneficial trade. Roxton accused her of flirting. She and Roxton argued for two days over Trico then finally, deciding he may have misinterpreted the matter, (could Marguerite really help it if these men were smitten with her?) Roxton apologized and the topic was dropped.

When it came to the suggested promise of escaping from the plateau perhaps she _was_ easily seduced, Marguerite allowed. Yet, to go home after two and a half years of living in this hell posing as paradise, who wouldn't be a little anxious and make allowances? She was willing to pet a bit if it would help accomplish their goal.

Marguerite looked down at him. Roxton was almost too still and she, examining the handsome sleeping face, experienced not just a little pride that he could feel so completely comfortable and sure in her embrace. Roxton was allowing himself the luxury of sleep because he knew she would protect him. He trusted her.

Stricken, Marguerite looked up and into the sparse woods around them. She could hear the roar of a far off dinosaur, possibly a raptor, and was leery, it was miles away and - hopefully - traveling in a different direction. Nevertheless, Marguerite patted her hip to be certain her pistol was still available. She felt relief at its comforting bulk.

Once again, Marguerite gazed at Roxton. The things he must have thought last night as he lay here, unable to move, powerless to defend himself, and knowing that the woman he loved was in that murderous monster's clutches. Then, the following day, to hear her calling to him in the early morning, having her think he had abandoned her ... The despair!

Marguerite hugged him all the tighter, so deeply sorry she had misjudged Roxton. She pledged it would never happen again. "I'll not let you down, my love. I swear." she murmured, knowing he could not near her. Then, a little sadly, she closed her eyes. As much as she cared for Roxton she knew she would not keep her promise. Men had hurt her in the past and occasionally, without knowing it, Roxton did the same. He did not mean it. He didn't know any better ... but it sometimes happened.

If only she could open up to him and tell Roxton everything that he needed to know about her. Yes, she was going to disappoint him and badly one day. Poor man. "I'm sorry." Marguerite whispered. One day, she prayed, she might be as sure of him as he was of her. Such a misguided man.

With a sigh, Marguerite leaned back on the large fallen tree she and Roxton were positioned next to. They had been there like this for nearly two hours and she wanted, more than anything, to stand and stretch but did not dare. The tide had not yet moved out and any disregard on her part could mean his death by drowning.

Still, she was weary and wanted so much to sleep, when Marguerite closed her eyes she saw a deep blue fog and could hear a man and woman's voice ...

_"You want someone to take care of you? Don't you?" he whispered._

_"W … what do you mean?"_

_"You want to be given jewels and money and be kissed by a man who knows how to do it right. You don't want just passion ... you want forever!"_

_"Yes ...oh yes." her accented voice whispered back, sounding more like a plea, "I want that. I want to be …" she faltered._

_"... remembered. " he offered._

_"Yes ... No ... I want to be ... loved."_

[]

**1874 - Limerick Town , Ireland**

Her Father had money but also another family; a legitimate wife and two fair haired daughters who looked down on her and Mum whenever they had the nerve to step foot into their home, which was only twice that Mary Jane Kelly could recall. She remembered the true Mrs. Kelly, looking more like a venomous scorpion than a woman, screaming at her Dad, telling him if "that whore" showed face again on their property again his uptown friends would know all. Father said nothing. He simply stood, looking down at his shoes, weak and immobile. He was hardly a man at all.

Mum, her Irish temper simmering, stared at him for a very long while. She was awaiting something - possibly acknowledgment - but it never came. They left then, Mum brave-faced but sobbing inside, as she took her young daughter, Mary Jane, by the hand.

That evening they stayed with a man of Mum's acquaintance. Mary could hear them in the room next to hers. She could not sleep for all the pleasure moans, mostly from him.

Mum had promised Mary things would get better. Her eleven year old daughter hoped it was true.

[]

Marguerite's head lolled as she dozed.

why did that child look so much like she when Marguerite was just a girl?

[]

_1876_

They lived with him for over two years and he promised, when times were better, to wed Mum and adopt Mary as his own. Mum relied on it and her gratitude knew no bounds.

Mary thought him a cruel and unkempt bastard, often hitting Mum when he was drunk, but she remained silent and dutiful because while they lived together Mary was schooled and, besides that, it seemed Mum might have actually fallen in love with the beast. He often ogled Mary out of sight from Mum and told the girl that he had the power to throw her out into the streets whenever he saw fit. Mum was blinded but Mary was not.

Then one evening, when Mary was nearly thirteen years old and just beginning to bloom, he sent Mum out for wine. He came for young Mary then, in her small bedroom, and she was petrified. Hs grimy hands were on her and he spoke such filth as to frighten the impressionable new teen out of her wits, when he tried to kiss her Mary screamed.

Mum arrived in time to rescue her daughter's virtue. However, she got the beating of her life as a result. She and Mary left the following day and Mum, swallowing her pride, took her daughter to England, to live with Aunt Emily.

Poor Auntie, nearly dead with tuberculosis and nothing to call her own but the roof over her head, but she was still better off than Mum.

"Goodbye, Mary." Mum had said and promised to return soon.

Mary Jane Kelly never saw her mother again.

[]

Marguerite opened her eyes wide and looked around.

A little frightened, she held Roxton tightly in her arms but he remained unconscious

and unaware. The tide was finally going out but they were still both soaked and she clung to him for warmth. It would be ironic; after all they had gone through to lose

Roxton to hypothermia. "Not funny." Marguerite murmured. No. It wasn't funny at all.

Soon Roxton would awaken, she was sure, and get to his feet. They would walk home to the treehouse together and, when resting in their own beds, they could forget about this horrible nightmare.

"John." Marguerite, concerned when she felt his shivers, touched his cheek, tracing a damp finger up the tanned skin to his hairline. She watched his lashes flutter open.

"Okay?" he asked with a voice still gruff from the curare that Anderson had slipped into his tea. "T-Too heavy for you to hold?"

Marguerite smiled, "No." she whispered with feigned sarcasm because she knew he would expect it, "Light as a feather, milord." She then smiled warmly, "Just get better." She lowered her head and brushed his lips lightly with her own.

"For you ..." he promised and, worn out, closed his eyes yet again.

Marguerite, try as she might, could not keep her own eyes from closing.

[]

_1877 - England._

"Listen Mary love; be kind to the gentlemen when they call. Be sure to tell them how handsome they are, whether it be true or not. You have a pretty face and a young, ripe body. It will take you far."

"But Auntie, I dunna think ..."

"Sh, now. When they pay ya coin hide it in your boot then bring it home ..." She patted her niece's dark hair. Too bad it wasn't red. Men liked Irish lasses with flaming hair. It was especially sought after in Mary's new profession.

"What if I dunna like it?' Mary nearly begged.

"Well, just try it out tonight, love. If you don't like it you can stop."

"''ow many men should I see? the girl asked, a small tear sliding down her left cheek.

Emily took a moment to cough, fighting her illness, then turned back to her niece. "My darling," She placed a finger under the girl's chin and lifted so she could meet her eyes, "Only as many as you think you can manage." She placed the lace bonnet on her head, managing to make the fourteen year old look even younger than her true age. Some men liked that. "But remember, lass, without you and the money you bring to our home I don't get medicine and we don't eat."

Mary averted her eyes. It was all up to her. And one day, when she made her fortune, Mum would come back and take her away from this horrid life .…"

"There's my girl." Emily stood and looked down at her niece, only a few inches shorter than herself. "Just remember, if they say filthy things to you or threaten to hurt you, it's just the way men are. Some of those gents have had hard lives. Be careful and be understanding, pet. Now go. Be good. I'll be waiting for you when you come home, dearest." She licked her thin, pale lips. "Perhaps tomorrow we'll have enough money to pay our rent - and get a sweet for dessert."

The smile faded as the girl turned away. Emily watched morosely but with a cheeky exterior as Mary approached her diminutive home's front door and put a small hand on the knob. Emily's heart skipped as she paused and looked back again at her Aunt, over a slim and slightly shaking shoulder.

"Will we 'ave stew tonight when I get home?" she asked.

"Oh yes, love, as much as you want." Emily enthused.

Mary Jane Kelly turned the knob and made her exit. Now - and for ten years to come -

she walked the wet and inhospitable streets of Whitechapel.

[]

"That horrible witch ..." Marguerite snarled as she dozed, "How could she do that to a child?"

[]

_September 30, 1888 - 7:16pm_

In the pub, Mary leaned back in her chair, staring sullenly out of the window into the busy courtyard. It was always robust with activity after a good rain. She nursed a short, warming drink, raking occasionally at her disarrayed mop of hair, and tried to make the liquor last.

Mary s most recent client had. been a bit more of a gentleman than most, wanting to be with her in a private room rather than in an alley but, in the end, when he had finished with her, he did what so many of the men did. He pitched her coin on the floor, forcing her to get down on her hands and knees before him to pick it up. Why did so many of the men do that?

She had grown hard and far more knowing than that little girl who had been sent out by a now long dead relative so many years ago. Now twenty five years of age Mary could see how Emily used her, almost as badly as the me it Mary had been forced to keep company with. Still, as much as she wanted to, Mary could not blame her Auntie exclusively. It had really been her own Mum that forced her into this life. She never came back to claim her daughter. She didn't want her, not in the long run, just like her father and all these men who came and went ...

"Mary! Oiy, Maryl" came a female cockney drawl.

She heard the tinkling chime of the pub door as it opened then saw the attractive and slightly unsteady blond woman approach. "Buy me a drink, hon?" she called over the drone of an out of tune player piano.

Mary sighed as her friend took a seat across from her, "Cathy girl, what you do'in?"

"Been a slow night." Catherine Beddowes smiled sheepishly and tipped the empty glass on the table before her, "Blokes aren't will'in to part with a penny to keep a lady warm, 'ow about you?"

"Slow for meself as well." Mary smiled mildly, sympathetic, "'aven't got a coin to spare. Guess you'll 'ave to get some fine young gent to buy you a pint."

"Cheap bastards, all of 'em." Cathy whined then smiled when Mary pushed her own glass, with a bit of tempting liquor, her way. "But with things being as they are in Whitechapel these days, I don't wanna spend too much time out there either." She pointed a finger to the window beside Mary, indicating the dark night. She then picked up the glass and downed the rest of her friend s drink.

There wasn't a street walker in this part of England who hadn't heard of the Whitechapel murders. "Certainly not fit for the likes of us that's for sure." Mary agreed, "But what are we go'in to do? The rent is need'in to be paid."

"Well, I'm stay'in in here all night iffin I 'ave to. Who knows, maybe I'll get lucky and a gentle bloke will be want'in my company." She looked into her now empty glass, "Maybe buy me a drink."

"You should go home. I tink you had e'nuff tonight." Mary cautioned.

"Only an hour or two more." Cathy promised.

Mary nodded and stood. "Be careful then, girl. Only gents. No riff raff,"

"You too, Mary. You too."

[]

"Damn it." Her arms ached from embracing him but she would do it all night if necessary. The tide would be rolling back in an hour or two. Marguerite first instinct was to push Roxton aside, now that the tide was lower and attempt to build a makeshift stretcher. She could do it with the long, stripped branches of the trees which dotted their surroundings, perhaps tear strips from her own blouse to hold it together, but Roxton stubbornly insisted she wait. Marguerite didn't know if it was the curare affecting his mind or male pride ... or perhaps he just wanted her close.

Roxton tried to stand but his legs just would not cooperate. He did have limited use of his hands, however, and could speak gruffly. Marguerite thought of dragging Roxton to an area where the water would not reach him then going after Challenger, Malone and Veronica on her own - but that meant leaving Roxton defenseless, to face danger without use of his arms and legs, what if the raptor she heard earlier made a sudden appearance?

But - even more frightening - what if that terrible Inspector Anderson regained consciousness and followed her tracks? Roxton wouldn't stand a chance in his current condition. She simply could not leave him unprotected!

With a silent, secret sob of frustration Marguerite prayed that challenger and the others would come searching for them by tomorrow.

"Marguerite ..." His eyes were open and he was looking up at her stricken expression. He smiled, attempting to ease her disappointment. "I'm beginning to feel my feet." He said, "Soon." Roxton promised.

"It will take awhile, John. No rushing it or you could get hurt." Marguerite brushed a hand through his hair.

He thought about this a moment, then grinned. "When I'm better perhaps we could indulge in a few acts from the book of Kama Sutra?" He said this, expecting the woman to ask him what he was talking about. However, to Roxton's dismay he watched as Marguerite's eyebrow arch, obviously enlightened.

"We can talk about all your Hindu adventures later, Lord Roxton, but - for right now - _sleep_. Get your strength back."

"When I sleep, I have bad dreams." He said, suddenly disturbed. "A woman. She looks like you. I see her in flashes but cannot hear what she's saying ... A sad life ..." He drifted.

Again, she touched his hair and looked down at the slumbering face. How strange. Roxton was also dreaming about a woman who looked like Marguerite ..."But no,"

Marguerite reconsidered, 'On this plateau it's not so strange.'

[]

_September 1888 - 9:20pm_

"Oh Cathy!" Her heart leapt into her throat the moment she heard a blond woman had been struck down, her body resting in a dark alley near her home. Mary raced to the spot on Mitre Square. Then, once there, with so many others gawking at the dead prossie, Mary took a deep breath and pulled a cigarette from her bag. Her personal flask was empty and she needed something to calm her nerves.

_'First Polly then Annie; then Bettie and now Cathy.' _She lamented. They were being picked off, one by one, and the bumbling law could do nothing. They were so uncaring, cruel and worthless!

Mary puffed on her cigarette madly and pushed back on her boiling emotions. She had gotten good at that, preventing those on the outside from seeing how stoe truly felt about lost friends and her own intolerable situation.

She watched as the inspector leaned over her friend's body, examining her as if she were dirt, and placing the sheet over her once again. He picked up something, probably the weapon that had done the horrid deed, and Mary could not keep her mouth shut when he, oh so casually, said: "Poor girl."

"What would you know about it?" She threw her cigarette down, annoyed.

He looked up.

Mary expected to see a different face but, for his kind, the inspector was quite

handsome. He reminded her of ...

[]

"Roxton?" Marguerite asked, jolted from her sleep.

Twilight had come. She shivered.

What type of bizarre delusion was this? That Beddowes woman looked just like Veronica and now the Inspector looked like ...

She glanced down at Lord Roxton but, because of the semi-dark, could not see his features clearly. Marguerite did, however, feel his steady breathing. He was well

asleep.

[]

He pushed her into the alley, away from the scene, away from Cathy's body and safety.

"Lay a hand on me and I'll scream!" Mary threatened.

The inquisitive and arrogant inspector, with his good looks and acid tongue, grew angry with her and had turned into a brute. He wasn't the first and would not be the last but there was something even more frightening than usual about him. Those green eyes were just so cold and because he was "the law" his brutality held a sort of weight that was perplexing - and repulsively exciting.

When he kissed her it was like an animal; hard and uncaring. He was hungry. Yes, he wanted her. Men had wanted her before. But he was ... powerful. Mary was intrigued but she also despised him. Frantic, she pushed him away with as much force as she could muster.

He then reached into his pocket.

Mary Jane recalled the knife and, for a very brief moment, she became terrified. Then flustered when a few coins were deposited into her hand. She looked down at the money. This was more coin than she could earn in a week. Her hand closed instinctively and greedily into a fist.

"There's plenty more where that comes from." Anderson commented, looking at her intently.

What was he saying? The police would pay her for information? Or was he conducting ... business? "Der better be." Mary moved away, deciding on the second option.

He watched her, pulled the knife from his pants pocket, and followed.

Mary could hear Anderson's expensive shoes against the cobblestone. She was petrified and walked all the quicker.

"Miss Kelly, I'm not finished with you yet!"

[]

To be continued …


	2. Chapter 2

TLW The Last Victim - Chapter 2

[]

Mary turned around and prepared to shriek ...

"Do you know what this is? He stood before her and held the knife out to her. When she did not reply, obviously frightened and confused, he said: "The murder weapon, I'm sure of it."

"It's ... different." She gulped, relieved. Mary looked at both Anderson and the knife, anxious and unsure what exactly it was he wanted from her. "I've never seen any'ting like it."

"It's evidence. I'm going to take this back to headquarters."

"Why are you tel'lin me this?"

He stared at Mary for a moment, his eyes looking into hers. "Because she was your friend." Anderson then glanced over his shoulder, back to the area where they had come from. "And I thought you would want to know that her sacrifice was not made in vain. Catherine Beddowes may be dead but thanks to her and the struggle she must have made to make her killer drop this …" He lifted the knife higher, the flame of a street-lamp causing a glint from the dagger's surface, "… we are closer to finding that maniac."

Mary was puzzled. His eyes were still piercing but the rest of him seemed to care. Was this the same man who seemed such a danger in the alley? Could she have misjudged him?

"I would like to talk with you further. Away from Scotland Yard. May I?"

Despite how she felt about the brute, Mary found herself almost hypnotically nodding. "Ye can find me at da Blue Eagle tavern."

"That won't do. Where is your home?"

It was Mary's turn to hesitate. Did she really want the police to know where she lived? Then, with a sigh: "I rent'a room - on Marley Street, near Millers Court. It be on a corner and has blue curtains. The glass in the window is cracked."

"I'll come over tomorrow evening."

"You're not trying to trap me into some'tin are you?"

"No." he said evenly, "I just want to see you … to talk with you. Don't tell anyone you expect my visit."

Mary nodded and watched as he slid the knife back into his pocket again. I wouldn't want, anyone t'know I was shaken down by d'police."

Anderson watched, once again, as the woman turned from him to walk away. She was very pretty. He liked when they were pretty. "Good." He said, quietly, "Very good."

[]

The dark of night passed quickly and brought about a new day, ripe with possibilities.

An energized Marguerite managed to lift a semi-lax Roxton and balance his weight against the fallen tree trunk. She then stood and searched about the sparse woods for anything that might help them. There was no food that she could see but that was okay. She still had their rations in her backpack and, if nothing else, both she and Roxton had full canteens. They would be fine for a couple days but, Marguerite hoped, they should be able to leave first thing the following morning.

As she explored the area, taking advantage of the sunlight, looking up every thirty seconds or so to be certain Roxton was still in her field of vision and resting, Marguerite allowed a satisfied grunt. She found both her own and Roxton's hats. Neither was in the best condition of their much used lives but finding them at all was progress and, as Marguerite well knew, when they returned to the treehouse Challenger had a wonderful cleaning solvent that worked wonders on stained clothing and, yes, even hats.

"Roxton!" Marguerite, stuffing the headwear in her pack, turned in his direction. "Good news! I found …" Her eyes suddenly grew wide and panic gripped Miss Krux when she realized Roxton was not resting near the fallen tree. He had disappeared, probably slipping into the water. "Roxton!" she cried and ran to where he should have been resting.

"Here!" a gruff voice called. Several meters away, clinging to an upright tree, Roxton stood and tried to keep his balance.

"You scared me to death!" Marguerite sobbed in both irritation and relief as she approached, "What are you doing?" She put an arm around Roxton and was grateful when he turned slightly did the same. He was still stiff and unstable but the fact he could remain upright, even when letting go of the trunk, was a testament to the man's strength of will.

"We need to get out of here before the tide rises again." He said, gulping to speak. "I don't want to spend another morning under water and I don't want to see you catch a cold."

"No argument there." Marguerite half chuckled, "Can you walk?" she asked.

"With your help ... yes." And he smiled warmly down at her despite his affliction.

Slowly, they managed to walk a few miles. Marguerite was determined but straining with Roxon's extra weight against her healthy but dog-tired body. He was quickly becoming intolerably heavy. When his legs finally gave out, Roxton collapsed on his hands and knees. Marguerite followed closely beside him, breathing heavily and thankful.

"I'm sorry." Roxton exhaled.

Panting, Marguerite reached up and touched his shoulder. "It's okay. Just think of this as another chapter in the on-going pages of Ned Malone's The Lost World Journals." She nearly chuckled at his pained expression, "We're due for a break anyway. Let's just lay here in the grass for a few minutes."

Both lay on their backs, staring up at the tall trees, foliage and a dot of graying sky above.

"We have to keep moving." Roxton said, even as he did not move.

"Yes, we will." Marguerite agreed, "But rest is a good thing." She then blinked with alarm when she realized Roxton wasn't speaking without reason, she rose up a bit on her elbows and looked over at him, "Why do we need to keep moving?"

"Anderson is still out there somewhere. He may try to hurt our friends just as he tried to kill both of us."

Regret instantly appeared in Marguerite's expression, "And he's not alone. I could tell from the amount of equipment in his camp that there was at least one other person traveling with him. Dammit," Marguerite lay back once again, "I should have killed him when I had the chance, John." Roxton's left hand arose from the grass and she felt his fingers sliding over the back of her own. Marguerite looked down and felt the same small quiver of affection and fear whenever the two of them were together and a connection was made. Slowly, unable to do otherwise, Marguerite snuggled in closer to Roxton and rested her head on his shoulder, "If I had only listened to you ..."

"Sh." Roxton implored, "Just rest for a few more moments and we'll be on our way."

"Rest," She repeated, "but no sleeping. I don't like my dreams."

They were comforted and felt secure in each others company and soon two sets of eyes closed. As hard as they tried to remain conscious both drifted into a world of ... chaos.

[]

October 8, 1888

She hadn't meant to sleep with him. Good God, that was the last thing she wanted to do. But he came to her every other night, wearing her down, talking with Mary and making suggestions. Finally, a few days before her birthday, he brought her a gift.

It was a framed picture of a beautiful woman, wearing a rich gown and living a life of leisure.

"It's beautiful." Mary whispered and placed it on her beside table. She could not recall the last time someone gave her a store-bought gift.

His eyes never changed. They were cold and held many secrets. He was still arrogant and there was an underlying immorality in the man that was apparent every time he invited himself into her one room flat. Physically, he was very powerful ... and desirable.

But then, last week, he asked her a question and his voice was so soft when the words were spoken: "Mary, have you ever been loved?" He sat in a chair just opposite her, as he had when he questioned her about what she had heard on the street about The Ripper.

Sitting on the bed, Mary replied: "I don't think so." and believed it.

"Would you like someone to take care of you?"

Mary's eyes narrowed, "Why are you ask'in me these 'tings? You should be out there catching Cathy's killer. What about that knife you found?"

"It's being taken care of." Anderson assured, "Now, answer my question."

"The 'tings I want don't matter." She said with a vulnerable gulp but attempted to keep a hard facade "Wha'tis real is what I must live with."

"And when you're taken every night by the filth on the streets of Whitechaple, you've never allowed yourself to hope for a better life than this? You've never wished one of those men would take you away from this squalor?" He stood then sat next to her on the bed. Anderson removed his hat and tossed it beside the picture on the nightstand.

"'course I've wished it." Mary looked away from him, unnerved by his closeness, and spoke with a tight, emotion-filled voice. "I just don't dwell on it. I can't."

"What if I took you away from this, Mary?" He whispered in her ear and felt her stiffen at his side, "What if I arranged to send you home to Ireland?"

"I don't wanna go home to Ireland."

"Where then?"

She paused, thinking of a childhood fantasy. "Paris." Mary turned slightly and felt his warm breath on her cheek, "They're more understand'in there. They ..."

And soon his lips were on hers, hungry and resolute, wanting her body and - she thought briefly - perhaps even wanting more from her than the fulfillment of his own carnal desires. She felt her hands moving to his jacket lapels, fingers peeling the garment off his shoulders as his own hands frantically reached to undo the buttons of her gown ...

Then later, as they lay together in her small bed, he smoked a thin cigar and told her Mary she was his lovely little prossie-wench and one day, when she least expected it, he would make her respected and famous.

"Just be good to me." Mary whispered, her cheek against his bare chest. "Please."

[]

Roxton felt Marguerite move beside him. Something had disturbed her. It was time to leave. He knew it but his body and consciousness would not cooperate.

_Anderson_ ... why did _he_ look like Anderson? It made no sense. And now, Roxton suddenly comprehended ... He could hear everything that was being said in his dream or vision. It was very clear ... and frightening.

[]

October 20, 1888

"Why are you spending so much time with her? She's a whore. The unwashed!" Dr. Gull warned quietly as he and his companion sat at the tavern table, drinking beer and talking business. "It's been too long. We still have work to do."

"What about the French girl last week?" Anderson questioned, hiding his mouth and words behind the beer stein.

"I had her in the carriage and Netley couldn't control the horses. There was too much noise. I had no time to do what was needed. We had to strangle her and dump the harlot into the river."

"Netley." Anderson scowled, looking at the young carriage driver through the large plate glass window as he stood outside the tavern, watching for potential victims. No fame for The Ripper that time. No one would miss a no-name prossie that didn't have The Ripper's signature gutting. "He's becoming a liability."

"Why? Because he nearly slept with your whore?"

"That's enough." Anderson growled lowly. He had watched Netley propositioning Mary Kelly last week, knowing Anderson had been keeping company with her, and he could have killed him right there.

What Gull said was true. It should not have mattered but it did.

"I saw the blackened eye you gave him." Gull reminded.

"Condescending pup. He needs to show respect. I made his position in our organization clear. That's all." Anderson sipped his beer, "Besides that, he was spotted right after killing Liz Stride. He walks around acting as if he can show his face anywhere. One day those men are going to see him again and he'll give us up. I know it."

Gull appeared skeptical. "You think a simple carriage driver will be believed over an imminent doctor and a respected police inspector?" He shook his head, amused by the notion, "We'll worry about Netley when the time comes. Now," Gull looked directly into Anderson's eyes, "that woman you've been seeing. Does she have potential?"

"No, I don't think so." Anderson said quickly, "I thought so at first but she has too much ..."

"Talent? Don't ever forget what she is, Inspector. She's only a woman and the world is filled with them. They are all deceptive and they will all, one way or another, deceive you! And," he added, "they are all at our disposal."

"I won't forget." Anderson replied but couldn't look at the doctor as he spoke.

[]

Marguerite's hands held hard onto Roxton's arm as she slept.

[]

November 2nd, 1888

"You're what?" Anderson grasped her roughly by the upper arms and pushed Mary Kelly to the bare wall of her flat.

"It's early. I dunna know for sure." She breathed heavily, startled by his reaction, "But somet'ing is different. I can feel it. I tink I'm pregnant."

"And you're trying to tell me it's mine?"

"You be the only man I've never protected myself with."

"And _why_ didn't you, Mary? Trying to trap _me_?"

"No." she said quickly then looked away admitting, "I dunna know. I never felt d'way with a man dat I feel with you. I dunna know what I was thinking."

Anderson eased up and stepped backward, continuing to look at her. He wasn't certain if he really believed her. All whores were actresses one way or another and he had only been with Mary for a few weeks. She was convincing, however. "So, what do you want _me_ to do about it?"

"You dunna 'ave to do noth'in." Mary set her jaw and looked up at him without flinching. "I know people. I can git rid of it or 'ave it. You don't 'ave to do noth'in." Her Irish accent grew thick with anger and other emotions as they threatened to penetrate her veneer of control. "But, whatever I do, I don't 'tink we should sleep together no more."

"And since when has that been your decision?" Anderson asked with a snarl. He backed away from her as he might from a piece of rancid meat, "You've disappointed me, Mary, you truly have." Then, a thought came to him. "Any chance the baby belongs to certain coach driver?"

Mary looked up at him, "None." she said. "I never been with sucha man and you know it." She pushed, remembering how he reacted to the flirtation between her and John Netley.

Anderson's jaw set like a trap. "Goodbye, Mary." He turned from her and walked from the flat, slamming the door behind him.

Mary stared at the door and took in the silence of her room. _Did_ she try to trap him? She truly did not know. But it didn't matter anymore. Sick, hurt and emotionally spent, Mary Jane Kelly allowed the bile which had risen in her throat let loose into the chamber pot beside her bed.

[]

"Oh God, it's night! We have to go, John!"

"Wha-what?" Roxton sat up slowly, feeling Marguerite's pull on his arm, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing - but we slept. It's dark, we need to leave, now."

"Damn." Roxton looked about and realized what she said was true, "It's too late now, Marguerite. At least we're far enough from the Inland Sea to not worry about the tide. It's not safe to travel the jungle at night. You know that. We better stay here until morning." Marguerite's pressure on his upper arm was nearly painful. If he didn't know better Roxton would swear the woman was frantic, "We'll get started first thing when the sun rises and be at the treehouse by noon ..."

"No, dammit! we have to leave _now_!"

The fear, the near terror, in her eyes was alarming.

[]

_To be continued ….._


	3. Chapter 3 - Conclusion

**The Last Victim - Chapter 3 - Conclusion.**

[]

"Marguerite!" Roxton grasped her shoulders, half frightened by her uncharacteristic panic and half pleased that he now had the ability to lift his arms without faltering, "What _is_ wrong?"

Her eyes were glassy in the moonlight. "John, I keep dreaming. No ... I'm having nightmares and they're so real. It s a woman, Mary Kelly, and she's ..."

"Inspector Anderson is Jack the Ripper?" Roxton understood, touching her hair and trying to sooth her fears. "I've been seeing it too. But it's odd somehow. I'm seeing _you_ and _me_ ... Challenger and Ned were there too."

"And Veronica." Marguerite nodded.

"But it's just a dream, Marguerite."

"No, it's more than that, John. What we're seeing is too vivid to not be real. And why would we _both_ see it at the same time?"

"You think someone is trying to send us a message?"

"I'm not sure but I don't want to be out here in the open anymore. I want to go home."

"England is a bit far away from here, Marguerite."

Exasperated, she cried - "You know what I mean, Roxton!"

Yes, he did but could not resist reminding Marguerite that home was closer than she believed. "My rifle and ammo are still wet. If we walk the only protection we have tonight is your pistol."

Marguerite quickly stood and held her hand out for Roxton, to help him up. "I'm game." She shivered as his arm slipped around her shoulders.

"Cold?" Roxton asked as they began to walk.

"A little. What I really need is a hot shower."

"I may have to join you." Roxton commented, with a sly smile.

Marguerite felt some relief. At least Roxton was well enough to demonstrate his bad sense of humor. However, she knew he was trying to do and she appreciated the effort.

They were lucky. The jungle was with them. A few threatening roars serenaded the couple during their dangerous miles long trek home but they were never really in any danger. The night seemed to cloak them or perhaps, Roxton thought when they saw the light of the treehouse in the distance, the plateau decided they had been through enough during the last few days. It was time to give the puny mortals a break.

The last mile was particularly tough on Roxton, the hunter having pushed himself to the limit, attempting to make Marguerite believe he was well on the road to recovery. Every muscle in his body ached and walking was agony. Finally, unable to take another step, Roxton pulled gently on her arm. "Marguerite, go on without me. I don't think I can ..." and he collapsed on the path, exhausted.

"John!" she knelt beside him and tugged on both of his arms, "I'm not leaving you here. Come on, you can do this. We're almost home!"

"No, it's okay. I'll be fine ..." he said, groggy, slowly falling back and laying the flipside of his hand over his eyes, shielding them from the intense moon glow and the concerned face of the woman he loved.

Marguerite could see the fatigue. They should have rested more often on the way but she was eager (and a little frightened) to get to the treehouse and Roxton didn't want to disappoint her. But now, here in the open, they were not safe. She could hear the roars and other threatening sounds from the jungle. The danger was much closer than it had been back at the Inland Sea. This time they truly did need to move. Luck could only last so long. "Roxton," she tugged again, "Come on now ..."

"I can't!" he said, his tone growing stubborn and angry.

"Don't tell me that!" Marguerite matched his timbre, "Major Lord John Richard Roxton, get your ass up off the ground and march!" she demanded then, when he still did not move, she decided to work on his conscience. "John, please. I'm afraid. Do it for me."

It wasn't altogether untrue.

Roxton removed his hand from his eyes, her tone touching something deep inside of him. He sat up and looked into her worried expression. Even the dark of night could not hide the tender emotion, the fear and helplessness she could never hide from him. Yes, for her, he would go on.

Slowly, with her able help, Roxton arose again to his feet and they continued on.

[]

_November 7, 1888_

John Netley stood outside of police headquarters, his presence obscured by a thick fog, and waited. He was certain Inspector Anderson would be back from supper soon and when he did there was a story to be told. A yarn. Dr. Gull had put him up to it; didn't matter that it was untrue. Anderson would believe it, Gull assured, and soon they would have their prize ... and become infamous.

[]

Veronica brought them both a warm drink as Challenger checked Roxton's eyes and pulse. "I can not believe you two had a run in with those sinister men too " she said with a visible shudder.

"One of them." Malone corrected, "It's amazing you were able to get away alive."

"You as well," Roxton countered.

"It's amazing _any_ of us were able to survived this ordeal." Challenger released Roxton's wrist and watched as the hunter sat a little taller on their settee. He was already looking much better than he had when Roxton and Marguerite initially returned to the treehouse, only a half hour before.

Challenger, Malone and Veronica had buried Anderson and what was left of Gull and, disturbed by the couples absence when they should have returned the day before, were preparing do a search. Then they heard Marguerite's call from below. Never, Challenger considered, had her shouts for help sound so comforting.

Marguerite sipped her tea from where she sat near the dining table, "Being in physical contact with that homicidal maniac was bad enough. Inspector Anderson was at least someone we could face. But those images and dreams ..."

"Images?" Veronica looked from Marguerite to Malone.

"Strange visions. I had them too." Roxton chimed in. "We were back in England at the time of The Ripper murders. We could see Anderson, Gull and Netley. Mary Jane Kelly too. But they were all _us_."

"You were seeing yourselves, and the rest of us, depicted as the people in your visions?" Challenger listened carefully.

"I know it makes no sense."

"But it does." Malone scratched the back of his head with nervous fingers, recalling his own ordeal. "I went through the same thing. All I had to do was touch that knife ..." He indicated the foul weapon as it lay on the common room table, "I saw the murders - and for awhile there it looked like all of _us_ were involved."

"You say you two had the visions also?" Challenger pressed Marguerite, his scientific curiosity getting the better of him, "That's extraordinary."

"It wasn't the same." Marguerite's brow furrowed as she thought about it, "From what Ned has told us, he was seeing an over-view of the Jack the Ripper killings. Roxton and I were seeing Mary Jane Kelly's life ... before her end. We were witness to a sick relationship and abuses ..." Marguerite gulped, uncomfortable. "I thought it was a terrible dream at first but when Roxton started to pick up on the images as well I knew there was something more to it."

"I wonder ..." Challenger looked from Roxton to Marguerite, "Did you both have the dreams at the same time?"

"Actually," Roxton considered, "I think Marguerite got them first, didn't you?"

She nodded, "Yes. I saw Mary Kelly as a child. I don't think Roxton started to get the full brunt of the visions until that horrible Inspector Anderson," The name was spoken with a snarl, "began to show up in her life."

"But _how_?" Veronica wondered, "With Ned, it was his trip back from the great beyond and his encounter with the knife that caused his visions. Why would Marguerite and Roxton ...?"

"I believe," Challenger stood and crossed over to the table. He stared down at the knife, attempting to make his theory feasible. "the essence of that poor woman, Mary Jane Kelly, was brought here with Gull and Anderson. The Inspector's first encounter with us came when he saw Marguerite and Roxton on the beach. Since he was so obviously integral in Miss Kelly's life, her tormented psyche clung to him ..."

"Challenger, that's a little wild, even for you." Roxton said.

"Hear me out." The Professor insisted, raising his hands for quiet, "When Malone had his vision of Anderson's meeting with Mary Kelly he saw Roxton and Marguerite, what if that essence, which was already on the plateau because of those two degenerate men, saw what Malone saw and adhered to it. Think of her as a lost spirit who longs for redemption and - possibly - revenge."

"_Kindness_." Marguerite whispered, then louder: "She wants the truth to be known. Mary Kelly was sending us a message the only way she could. Maybe she still is."

Challenger, grateful for the woman's open minded intelligence, agreed: "I think Miss Kelly was sending the message to you, Marguerite. Roxton picked up on it through you and Malone's vision of himself in the place of Anderson."

"Well, thank God that's over." Malone said, "Tomorrow we'll throw that knife down the deepest crevice on the plateau and no one will ever have to see it again."

"It's not over, Malone." Marguerite stared over her teacup at the knife on the table. "Not everything has been seen."

"Look, Marguerite ..." Veronica crouched beside the sitting, thoughtful woman, "Anderson and Gull are dead. Netley died in England. She's been avenged."

"But her story isn't complete, Veronica." Roxton gazed at Marguerite, understanding. "She wants us to know the whole truth. Then can she rest."

Challenger looked from Malone to the knife, "Ned, perhaps you could ... just one more time?"

"No." Marguerite interrupted Challenger before Malone could protest. She lowered her cup into its matching saucer and looked intently down at the evil knife, "Mary Jane Kelly didn't come to Malone. She came to me. I need to see this through."

"You think the knife will show you what you need to see? How do you know it will work?" Malone asked, quietly.

"I don't know. I don't claim to have your abilities, Ned, but ..." Marguerite hesitated, unsure. Then, with more determination: "I'm willing to give it a try."

"Roxton?" Veronica watched as the hunter stood from where he was resting on the settee, "What do you think?"

Normally Roxton would have been the first to tell Marguerite _no_, that it was too dangerous and she should not risk her life. However, seeing the resolved on her lovely face, this time he relented. "She's determined." And strong enough to beat the hell out of Inspector Anderson and rescue Roxton himself from a watery death, "If this is something Marguerite feels she has to do ... I'm there beside her."

'_To catch me should I fall.' _Marguerite looked up at Roxton and met his eyes, lost in him for a moment. "Thank you." she whispered. Slowly, Marguerite reached forward and grasped the handle of the knife.

[]

_November 9, 1888 - 10:27pm_

She woke up slowly. In the dim moonlight the contours of her room seemed unfamiliar and vaguely threatening, what had roused her from her sleep? She sat up in her bed, a feeling of dread nagging at her. She looked around, but did not see anything suspicious. She could not near any noises that were cause for concern. What was it? And then she knew.

Mary could see his shadow, sitting in the dark, silently puffing on one of his cigars.

"Inspector?" she asked, "'dat you?" She took the shawl which was lying beside her on the bed and pulled it behind her, wrapping the material around her shoulders to fold over her breasts.

"Were you expecting one of your _other_ clients?" He threw the cigar on the floor and crushed it with his booted foot.

_Client?_ She had never thought of Robert Anderson as a client. "No. Not tonight." she whispered, alarmed by his tone. It was too calm. Last week, after Netley's proposition, Anderson took her back to her flat. He spoke to her calmly then, without warning, slapped Mary hard. The Inspector told her he didn't ever want to see her speaking to that rubbish again. She didn't understand. He had never made a big deal about any of her other customers but Mary promised never the less.

Then they made love. If that was what you could call it. As he took her, devouring her heart and soul, Mary recalled what her Aunt Emily had said: _'Just remember, if they say filthy things to you or threaten to hurt you, it's just the way men are. Some of those gents nave had hard lives. Be careful and be understanding, pet.'_

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"Shouldn't I be here?"

"We agreed," Mary said, sitting then rearing up on the bed. "'dat you shouldn't come here no more."

"Not exactly." Anderson respond, "We agreed that we would not sleep together anymore." He stood, angry shadows crossing his face. "And we won't. Not ever again." He reached behind him to the small flat's front door. He opened it and standing by the frame was John Netley himself.

The coach driver walked in quickly and stood to the side, away from the moonlight. He lit a small candle that produced glow enough to see the men but not make out any fine features.

"No one saw you?" Anderson asked him. The younger man shook his head in a negative motion. "Gull?"

'"e'll be here soon, sir." Netley answered, glancing at Mary. He had been by the flat two hours ago, making certain she was home. He heard her singing to herself. She had a pleasant little voice.

"Why is he here?" Mary asked, clasping the shawl nervously around her shoulders, holding it tightly. "What do you have in mind?" she wondered.

Inspector Anderson, with barely disguised disgust, looked at Netley who half smiled then glanced quickly from Mary to his male companion again. "Go outside and wait for the doctor." Anderson ordered, "It's dark. No one will see you. The minute Gull arrives tell him to come straight in."

Again, Netley nodded and his eyes held a knowing gleam that was as overconfident as it was deranged.

"Dr. Gull?" Mary questioned. She recalled him coming to Whitechapel before to treat a few of her ailing friends ...

"Mary," Anderson spoke when he heard the door close behind the coachman. Slowly, he moved in on her. "Of all the women I've been with you were the most intoxicating; the most unassuming. You matched me perfectly and I valued your candor." He paused, the eccentric dream-like look leaving his expression, "But you disappointed me. You became inquisitive and _common_. And, my dear, you slept with all the wrong people."

"But I didn't ..."

"Netley says you did."

"He's a liar!" she gulped, "I work. I 'ave to. I need money. But not from _'im_! You told me not to …" she pressed, "But I'm three months late on mi' rent! 'ow was I suppose to eat?"

Anderson's expression became scornfully sympathetic, "When we're finished with you, dear Mary," His hand reached forward, lifting to stroke her dark hair, "You will never have to worry about money again, you will never need to prostitute yourself. All the pain will be gone, Mary, and this waste you call a life will be over. _You_ will be our greatest achievement."

Mary began to pant in fear. Her legs bent and she sat up, now kneeling on the mattress in front of her one time lover. "Please, you promised me …"

"I promised ..." He moved in close, spoke gently, and slipped an arm around her " ... t_o make you_ _famous_."

When the knife entered her lower abdomen Mary Kelly barely felt it. It slid in smoothly and the pain came only when he slowly began to push upward on handle.

"You're him." She whispered, unable to scream. "You're Jack the Ripper .."

The look of dazed acceptance on her face momentarily touched Anderson. He could almost love her. The Inspector watched as a small line of blood began to drip from the side of the woman's mouth. He saw her eyes lose focus and - for Anderson - it was beautiful. She was so lovely and at this moment truly his.

The door opened. Mary watched as a man in a top hat approached with a dark medical bag.

"Yes, Miss Kelly, we are _all _him." Dr. Gull said.

She slid from her lover's arms and fell back on the bed. Her head turned to look at the bedside table. She stared at the picture of the beautiful, leisurely woman Inspector Anderson had brought her. "Mum ..." she whispered.

"Close the door. We have work to do."

This was the last thing Mary Jane Kelly heard before she died.

[]

"No!" Marguerite shrieked and her eyes opened wide with terror and misery, "They killed her! They ..." With all her heart Marguerite wanted to see her friends. She wanted to awaken from this nightmare but it was not happening. This was not Roxton who held her right arm, keeping her still and speaking words of comfort. It was that silver tongued, deceptive and monstrous demon, Inspector Anderson. "No! Go away!" She stood, knocking her chair away as she backed up, looking to her left. It was not her good, wise friend, Professor George Challenger. Instead, it was Dr. Gull who was lifting a syringe. He inject something lethal and painful into her arm. And who was that standing off a little in the distance, watching her and looking concerned? Not Veronica and Ned Malone but poor Cathy and that fiend, John Netley ...

"Marguerite!" Roxton tried to get control of the twisting, screaming woman in his arms. "It's us! It's us! I swear it's us!" and his hand lifted to touch her face, to caress her through the torment of whatever horrible vision she was experiencing.

His firm touch against her bare skin was as effective as a slap.

Calming, Marguerite stared harder and slowly Anderson melted away and Roxton appeared before her ... then Challenger and the others. Tears falling unchecked, "She loved him ... she truly did. And he murdered her - _and their child_!" she sobbed, "Oh God, I should have killed him ..."

"He's gone." Roxton whispered gently, petting Marguerite and speaking tenderly, lowering her to the settee. "She - Mary Kelly and all the others - have been avenged. The truth is known. They can rest in peace now."

Marguerite relaxed slightly on the settee and, although still shaking, she suddenly _did_ feel better. Wherever Mary Jane Kelly was, hopefully having found a small place in heaven, Marguerite knew she was now at ease.

It was as Roxton and the others had said. Gull and Anderson: Justice had been served.

Unhurried, with a deliberate calm, Roxton raised Marguerite's hand and gently kissed her knuckles.

[]

The cave was scorching and steam arose from the hollow depths below. The stones surrounding them were red hot with the promise of a nasty burn if they were not careful.

"Whoa, this looks like hell on Earth." Marguerite intoned, glancing at the torch carrying Roxton who placed a free hand on her back.

He was proud of her and even more pleased that she was recovering well from her ordeal. "Not my first Choice for a picnic." Roxton responded.

Veronica nodded, "No one ever comes here. The Zanga called it the 'Angry Place'."

"A perfect end for this vile thing." Malone raised the knife, holding it carefully in its wrapping, and looked at it with a hatred reserved for the most depraved object on earth.

None of them ever wanted to see that evil ever again. Not here on the plateau. Not anywhere.

Malone dropped the knife and all watched as it fell to be forever consumed in flames and lava.

[]

_**THE END**_

_August-September 2003_

[]

_The following is a genuine article:_

_Barking and East Ham Advertiser._

_Saturday, 24 November 1888._

**WHITECHAPEL MURDER**

The remains of Mary Janet Kelly, who was murdered on the 9th of November, in Miller's Court, Dorset-street, Spitalfields, have been interred in the Roman Catholic Cemetery at Leytonstone. The body was enclosed in a polished elm and oak coffin, with metal mounts. On the coffin plate was engraved: "Marie Jeanette Kelly, died November 9th, 1888, aged 25 years." Upon the coffin were two crowns of artificial flowers. The coffin was carried in an open car by two horses, and two coaches followed, from the Shoreditch Mortuary. An enormous crowd of people assembled at an early hour, completely blocking the thoroughfare, and a large number of police were engaged in keeping order. As the coffin appeared, borne on the shoulders of four men, at the principal gate of the church, the crowd was greatly moved. Round the open car in which it was to be placed men and women struggled desperately to touch the coffin, women with faces streaming with tears cried out "God forgive her!" and every man's head was bared. The site was quite remarkable, and the emotion natural and unconstrained. Two mourning coaches followed, one containing three, and the other five persons. Joe Barnett was amongst them, with someone from McCarthy's, the landlord; and the others were women who had given evidence at the inquest. After a tremendous struggle, the car, with the coffin fully exposed to view, set out at a very slow pace, all the crowd appearing to move off simultaneously in attendance. The traffic was blocked, and the constables had great difficulty in obtaining free passage for the small procession through the mass of carts and vans and tramcars which blocked1 the road. The distance from Shoreditch church to the Cemetery at Leytonstone by road is about six miles, and the route traversed was, Hackney-road, Cambridge Heath, Whitechapel-road, and Stratford. The appearance of the roadway throughout the whole journey was remarkable, owing to the hundreds of men and women who escorted the coffin on each side, and who had to keep up a sharp trot in many places. But the crowd rapidly thinned away when, getting into the suburbs, the car and coaches broke into a trot. The cemetery was reached at two o'clock. The Rev. Father Columban, with two acolytes, and a cross-bearer, met the body at the door of the little chapel at St. Patrick, and the coffin was carried at once to a grave in the north-eastern corner. Barnett and the poor women who had accompanied the funeral knelt on the clay by the side of the grave, while the service was read. The coffin was incensed, lowered, and then sprinkled with holy water, and the simple ceremony ended. The floral ornaments were afterwards raised to be placed upon the grave, and the filling-up was completed in a few moments, and was watched by a small crowd of people. There was a very large concourse of people outside the gates, who were refused admission until after the funeral was over.

[]

_**The following the song Mary Kelly was heard singing the night of her death:**_

_A Violet From Mother's Grave_

_Scenes of my childhood arise before my gaze,_

_Bringing recollections of bygone happy days._

_when down in the meadow in childhood I would roam,_

_No one's left to cheer me now within that good old home,_

_Father and Mother, they have pass'd away;_

_Sister and brother, now lay beneath the clay,_

_But while life does remain to cheer me, I'll retain_

_This small violet I pluck'd from mother's grave._

**Chorus**

_Only a violet I pluck'd when but a boy,_

_And oft'time when I'm sad at heart this flow'r has giv'n me joy;_

_So while life does remain in memoriam I'll retain,_

_This small violet I pluck'd from mother's grave._

_well I remember my dear old mother's smile,_

_As she used to gree me when I returned from toil,_

_Always knitting in the old arm chair,_

_Father used to sit and read for all us children there,_

_But now all is silent around the good old home;_

_They all have left me in sorrow here to roam,_

_But while life does remain, in memoriam I'll retain_

_This small violet I pluck'd from mother's grave._

**Chorus**

[]

There were many rumors about Mary Jane Kelly. One account said she was with child when she was murdered _(when London walked in Terror orig. Autumn of Terror a.k.a. The Crimes and Times of Jack the Ripper _by Tom a. Cullen_, Bodley Head, 1965) _

However, the report was never truly substantiated.

[]

Inspector Robert Anderson was head of the criminal Investigation Department (CID) at the time of the Ripper murders. The son of Matthew Anderson, a lawyer who was the Crown Solicitor for the Country and City of Dublin, he himself was an Anglo-Irish lawyer. He arrived in London on 19 December, 1867 and was chosen to assist the head of the Secret service Department at that time. His Irish ties probably were part of the appointment since the department was established in the wake of what was perceived to be a Fenian (Irish Republican Brotherhood) bombing. (From Begg, JTR: theUncensored Facts)

[]

Sir (Doctor) William Gull, during the time of the Whitechapel murders was the physician in attendance of her Majesty, The Queen of England.

[]

John Netley was a coach driver, also rumored to be in the Queen's service.

[]

_Thank you Sandy, Mary and Barbara. Couldn't have done it without you._

_(hope you enjoyed this fiction. Please leave a comment or review. I'd love to hear from you. Becky99)_


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